A Bullet in the Night
by Eridanus7Always
Summary: A murder no one saw coming leads to an ending no one will soon forget.
1. A Bullet in the Night

_I've wanted to write a Sherlock fic for a while but I've lacked the inspiration but this idea popped into my head the other night so I'm going to give it go. Let me know what you think?_

A cab drew to a stop outside the shadowed front of Flat 221B. A man stepped from the cab onto the quite streets, ducking his head down against the raw wind that whipped down from the formidable sky.

The cab drew away as the man reached the stoop of 221B. Kneeling down he glanced warily up the street but at three in the morning there was no one to see the dark figure knelt in front of Baker Street.

He pulled a small leather pouch and unrolled it on his knee. Quickly and quietly with steady fingers he moved the metal picks within the lock till he heard the familiar click as the lock opened for him.

Pushing the door slowly inward the hinges did not betray his coming. Slipping the small leather pouch back inside his coat he stood glancing warily back up the street but he was still alone.

Stepping quietly inside he slipped the door closed behind him. Standing for a moment his eyes adjusting the darkness of the house everything was still except for the tremble of pipes in the ceiling and the slow patter of rain on the old roof.

Moving across the foyer, he placed each step silently and with great calculation but the floorboards did not betray his coming. He took slow breaths to steady his heart; the adrenaline began to course through his body making his hands trimmer against the cold metal of the gun resting against his breast.

Ever so silently as a shadow moving against the wall, he crept up the stairs. The silver carpet of moonlight that normally lighted the first landing was obscured by the formidable black storm clouds that had settled over London, the man paused once more, his hand settling as his heart slowed thumping softly in his chest.

But still the house slept, not betraying the silent shadow that stole ever further up the stairs. At the top of the stairs was a door; it was opened allowing a soft golden light to spill out into the hall. The man drew ever closer till the golden light fell at his feet and cast back the shadows from his solemn face.

There were no emotions in his dark eyes. He paused once he stepped from the last stair; the pound of rain growing steadily louder on the rooftop but that was all that could be heard.

The room before him was small and cluttered light by a single lamp which did little to keep the darkness at bay. Diagonal from the door was a fireplace where two chairs sat with an old worn coffee table between them. In an old burgundy chair with a worn plaid blanket tossed over the back a tall man with a mess of dark curly hair slept, the golden light of the lamp falling across his somber face.

The man drew forward, his body tense but hand steady. Standing behind the man who had fallen to sleep with his head resting on his hand leaning wearily against the arm of the chair he paused.

His eyes found the cold cup of tea barely touched and the cold ashes of a dead cigarette in an ashtray on the old coffee table. A laptop hummed softly beside the tea, its screen black as it slept.

He could hear the man's slow steady breaths unaware his life was about to come to a sudden end as he wrapped his fingers around the gun drawing it from his jacket. Slowly holding his breathe, he drew the gun out pressing the cold nose near the back of the sleeping mans skull and then without hesitation he pressed his finger down onto the trigger.

There was a soft pop and the man's head fell forward his arm fell over the side of the chair. The man drew back the gun, as a thin trickle of blood ran down the man's neck.

Slipping the gun back into his jacket pocket the man slipped quickly back down the stairs and as he stole out into the cold and bitter night, still no one saw the man that had put a bullet in the back of the world's only consulting detective's head.


	2. Broken Promises

_Alright, heres the second part. I'm sorry if I misspelled any names (I'm an awful speller.) Alright here it is. Reviews are always appreciated. :]_

Lestrade woke to the sharp ringing of his phone, vibrating harshly against his night stand. Pushing his eyes open Lestrade reached out wearily for his phone that continued to hum on the table. Wrapping his fingers around it, he pressed his finger blindly to the screen the humming ceasing.

Lestrade drew the phone up to his ear slowly, his mind still heavy with sleep. He had been working a triple homicide down in the East End, for the past three days. He hadn't slept in over thirty six hours when he had collapsed into bed just after one this morning.

His mind was not eager to relent the sleep it so desperately wanted but Lestrade pushed it back all the same. He was suppose to have the day off and if something was worth waking him up it had to have been important.

"DI Lestrade."

Lestrade said hoarsely, laying the phone against his ear. He could hear a pause, meaning he had cut someone off mid sentence as they now gathered their thoughts."

"DI Lestrade, I'm sorry to wake you but theres been an incident at Baker Street. Donovan said you'd want to be notified."

"An incident, what kind of incident?"

Lestrade felt the tension ease a bit out of his mind. This was not the first time he had been woken at an ungodly hour for an "incident at Baker Street." None of the DIs would work with Sherlock, which Lestrade couldn't blame them.

Sherlock had grown on Lestrade over the years but even still he had a way of sometimes infuriating him. He did not see the world the same way and as thus he could grow cross if not handled properly.

Lestrade smiled at the thought of Sherlock being one of those fragile boxes that says handle with care. But in truth the only one who had ever gotten close to Sherlock's heart was John. Sometimes when Sherlock was around John it was almost possible to imagine he was human.

But still if an incident did occur which had happened on occasion Sherlock normally was always the one to call him. While Lestrade was the only DI capable of working with Sherlock, Lestrade was the only DI Sherlock trusted.

And Sherlock had no problem about calling at any hour of the day to demand Lestrade's assistants which was rare. In fact Lestrade had been seeing less and less of Sherlock over the past few months and what he saw of him worried Lestrade greatly.

So now as the caller's voice echoed in Lestrade's ear drawing him back from his deep thoughts Lestrade felt a hollow pit settle in the pit of his stomach.

"Sherlock Holmes, is dead."

Dead. The word was harder to swallow than Lestrade could ever had imagined. He had always imagined a sense of relief when at last he parted company with the great Sherlock Holmes. But now all he felt was a deep ache in his heart.

Lestrade didn't fill the phone slip from his fingers as he sat forward, the last remnants of sleep driven from his mind by a deep sense of grief. Lestrade had seen Sherlock not only four hours earlier when they had parted company at the yard.

He had been tired, his eyes dark but Lestrade knew he had not slept in over sixty hours or what little sleep had had was filled with troubled dreams. His face had been sunken but a diet of tea and biscuits was hardly supplementing.

Lestrade searched his muddled mind for the last thing he had said to Sherlock before parting ways on the street corner. Go home Sherlock, get some rest, god knows we need it. Sherlock had turned without a word and Lestrade had grabbed him.

"Sherlock, if you need anything please call me." Sherlock had nodded trying to free himself from Lestrade's grasp.

"Sherlock, I'm serious."

"I'm not a child Lestrade."

"Sherlock you're wasting away, when you're ready I'm here."

"I'm fine on my own."

"Sherlock, he wouldn't want you to do this to yourself."

"To hell with you."

Sherlock had stormed off and now thinking of it that was the last thing he had ever said. Lestrade knew he didn't mean it but he wished now he wouldn't have let him go.

Lestrade. Lestrade snapped back opening his mouth to respond only to realize the phone was not in his hand. Looking down he ran his hand through the sheets wrapping it around the phone he lifted it to his ear.

"Sorry I'm here. I'll be right down. Don't let anyone in till I get there."

"Alright Lestrade."

Lestrade hung up the phone and throwing back the covers stood to get dressed. It was less than a half an hour before Lestrade was stepping from the cab outside Baker Street. Stepping under the tape Donovan came toward him her face solemn but Lestrade knew there was grief in her heart.

"Lestrade?"

"Leave me be Donovan."

She stopped looking at him in surprise.

"The world's better off without him-"

"You were wrong about him Donovan."

Lestrade turned moving toward an ambulance that was parked in front of Baker Street the back doors opened as the lights flashed silently. Mrs. Hudson sat in the back, a paramedic trying to calm her down as tears ran wildly down her face.

Lestrade moved toward her the paramedic stepping back as he approached.

"Mrs. Hudson."

She lifted her tear stained face looking him in the eyes.

"Lestrade."

Lestrade knelt in front of her, taking her shaking hands gently in his.

"What happened?"

"Sherlock hasn't been sleeping, he hasn't been eating. You know I'm sure."

"Yes."

" I could often hear him pacing at all hours of the night. He's not been the same since he came back. Well, I woke at about five and went up to check on him and thats when I found him."

Her voice broke as she dropped her head.

"Alright, its going to be alright."

Lestrade squeezed her hands softly as he stood, turning to the paramedic.

"Look after her."

The paramedic nodded as Lestrade turned walking across the sidewalk toward the stoop of 221B Baker Street. No one had entered after the paramedics, waiting upon Lestrade's order. Stepping through the open door, Lestrade felt a lump form in his throat his heart beating harder in his chest.

Moving up the stairs Lestrade stepped into the small Flat John and Sherlock had once shared. The only light came from a small lamp beside John's chair and a soft gleam of the dawn. Sherlock sat in John's chair slumped forward, one could almost believe he was sleeping.

Moving over beside Sherlock, Lestrade knelt down looking sadly on his cold dead face. He looked more peaceful than Lestrade had seen him since he had returned. John's laptop was open before him, along with a cold cup of tea beside it and a dead cigarette in the ashtray.

"John would be mad if he knew you were smoking again."

Lestrade said it more to ease the tension rising in his chest making each breath short.

"But he would be pleased you still have the ashtray, even if its stolen."

Lestrade stopped looking up at Sherlock's face, the weariness of the past few months etched eternally on his sharp narrow face. Lestrade reached out squeezing Sherlock's hand, it was frighteningly cold.

Lestrade had no idea why he had done it, sentiment he guessed or as if by holding onto Sherlock he would somehow hear him clearer.

"I'm going to find whoever did this and I'm going to make them pay."

Lestrade dropped his head taking a deep breathe. He had never thought this would have been so hard but he felt guilt more than anything eating away at him. He had let this happen again, it should never have happened in the first place.

It had been a little over three years since Sherlock had jumped. John had been devastated and refused to believe Sherlock had ever lied to him. It was his faith in Sherlock that had swayed Lestrade, he knew now he had made a mistake in trusting Donovan.

John had drifted away much as Sherlock had in these past few months. But John who was not so helplessly stubborn as Sherlock had let Lestrade in. He was getting better, coming to terms with the loss of his best friend things were beginning to return to normal or a modified normal no longer moderated by Sherlock's violent mood swings.

Then one cold September night everything had changed once more. Lestrade had been working a case, tired and unable to find a break he was sure Sherlock would have found in an instant, he had missed John's call.

John had left the Flat to clear his head as he often did. It had been early in the morning and much of London had been sleeping. Where he had gone no one knew exactly but the only thing that was certain was that he hadn't come back.

When Lestrade had finally gotten a break from the seemingly unsolvable case he had driven by to check on John only to find he had disappeared into thin air, gone. Lestrade had searched and searched until the leads grew cold and died altogether. After a year of hopeless searching Lestrade had to come to terms with the fact John was gone.

This bitter disappointment at being unable to bring any closure in John's disappearance was followed shortly after by the return of Sherlock Holmes himself. Sherlock had returned having concluded the business that had kept him away for so long looking to explain everything to John and reconcile but John was not waiting for him.

It had devastated Sherlock his guilt was far greater than even Lestrade's. He had agreed after much coaxing to began to work on cases once more with Lestrade but John's disappearance had haunted him. Months had gone by and Sherlock had panned out many of Lestrade's leads all leading nowhere.

He had been fading, losing faith in himself and his complete failure at being able to bring his best friend home. Now he was dead, assassinated in the night and Lestrade felt that he would once more let down Sherlock in being unable to bring him the closure he deserved.

Standing stiffly Lestrade pushed back the past struggling to concentrate on the present. Whoever had shot Sherlock had entered, shot him in the back of the head and left. There were no disturbance and Sherlock had not put up a fight.

Lestrade clenched his jaw as he saw the bloody bullet hole in the back of Sherlock's head. He hadn't even known what hit him. While he had slept in John's chair collapsed from exhaustion some monster had slunk in and put a bullet in the back of his head.

**Even knowing this was a case the Yard could never solve, Lestrade felt a new determination to bring some sort of closure to the man that had given so much closure to others. Lestrade only hoped this wasn't another broken promise, another dead trail.**


	3. Morning After

O.o OMG, its been almost a month since I last updated. I'm sooooooo sorry to all my wonderful readers who have been waiting patiently for this update. I kinda lost the inspiration for this story but I kicked myself in the butt today to get this up to all of you who have been waiting. I got a surprise for you that should make the wait well worth it. :]

Sorry this chapter is a bit short (alright really short) but I promise the next one will be much longer. Please review and I'll try get the next one up much quicker.

* * *

Dean pushed his eyes open as the sunlight fell harshly through the curtains across his face. His mind was still muddled with sleep and he couldn't recall for a moment the moments prior to him collapsing into bed at five in the morning and resulted in this awful pounding in his head.

Dean laid still for a moment searching his muddled mind till the events slid slowly back into place. He groaned drawing his hands under his body to lift himself from the warmth of his bed. He needed to be awake when he called, he could get very crossed when inconvinced.

Dean swung his feet around standing he moved toward the bathroom where he intended to shower, shave and then make himself a nice hot breakfast. Dean had just stepped from the shower, his skin glowing from the hot water and steam condensing on the bathroom mirror when his cell phone began to vibrate against his nightstand.

Moving quickly from the bathroom Dean picked up the phone clicking it against his ear.

"Its done."

"Good. No complications."

"It was clean."

"I am very impressed. The money will be in your account by tomorrow evening. I'll be in touch."

Dean heard the phone click in his ear and set it back down on the nightstand. His fingers linger for a moment on the phone before he turned to get dressed. It looked like it was going to be a lovely day and he was thinking of making the most of it.

Dean dressed quickly, slipping on a pair of slacks and a jumper, despite the sunshine he knew it could never be too warm in London in early March. Dean lived in a small one bedroom flat, in London's Upper East Side. The money from his rather unconventional job paying for his higher expensed lifestyle.

Dean clicked on the TV as he passed into the kitchen, wondering if his job would be on the news this morning. Opening the refrigerator he pulled out two eggs turning his eyes stopping on the TV as Brenda the morning anchorwoman came on air, a picture of the now deceased Sherlock Holmes in the corner of the screen. He always did have a knack for making the front page.

_Last night, Scotland Yards unconventional consulting detective was murdered inside his flat. He was found this morning by his housekeeper. DI Lestrade is refusing to release any more information relating to the case but it leaves us all to wonder, who had it out for the famous detective and does the blogger John Watson's disappear have anything to do with it._

An image flashed onto the screen, a man looking rather short beside his tall companion where a black jacket with leather caps on the elbows, a thoughtful look on his round face.

Dean's heart stopped as he felt the eggs slip from his fingers, they fell crashing to the floor. There soft white bodies cracking as the yellow yolk ran out onto the grey tile. But Dean's eyes never left the TV screen as he stared in horror at the man they called Dr. John Watson.

_Three years ago Sherlock Holmes faked his suicide, jumping from St. Barts Hospital Roof. Up until a year and a half ago he was by all means considered dead. Dr. Watson who was Holmes closest companion and assisted him on the many staggering number of cases they solved, always maintained that Holmes was innocent of the charges started by DI Donivan. Watson disappeared from Baker Street over a year and a half ago and all efforts by the Investigators to bring him home proved futile. Is the disappearance and most likely death of Dr. John Watson also connected to the untimely death of the great detective. And if so, who is behind these ghastly crimes?_

Dean couldn't tear his eyes from the screen, from Dr. John H. Watson's face, from his face. He staggered gripping the countertop tightly. If what was on his TV was to be believed, he was the missing Dr. Watson and if that was true he had just put a bullet in the back of his best friend's head.

* * *

O.o WHAT? Bum Bum Buh.


End file.
